The Blue Rogue's Tale
by Bealocwealm
Summary: The criminal is released by fate to become something greater than the coward within himself that he despises. In some ways a very straightforward telling of the story of the Hero of Kvatch, in other ways a definite AU. UPDATE: Chapter 5 up.
1. Chapter 1: Waking and Seeing

His muscles ached. A dirty, small human stirred, as a beam of light traced across his face, glaring through his eyelids. He put a hand over his eyes, and in so doing found the motion more difficult than he'd expected. His arm felt heavy. His skull throbbed.

The lad groaned. He shifted, and opened his eyes against the light. Three lines. Vertical in the patch of light. It took him several moments to recognize that the lines were bars in a window. That the window was set in a high stone wall – that he lay upon stone, little wonder he felt so sore.

It took a few more moments to piece this information together. With a gasp of horror, he sat up, fingers running through his curls – brown, uncombed and wild. Trying to remember how it was he'd come to this place – he saw the chains and his heart froze in his chest.

Without thinking, the lad rushed to rise, shoving himself up despite objecting pains – felt the heavy iron shackles at his wrists with growing dread. His feet were bare, his clothes little more than rags. Not unremembered rags – no, these were his own clothes, he was certain – a hand touched his throat. His throat was bare. The hand shook – he saw the bars, and rushed for them.

A mocking, sneering voice addressed him.

"Oh, look, an Imperial in the Imperial Prison. I guess they don't play favorites, huh? Your own kinsmen think you're a piece of human trash. How sad. I bet the guards give you _special_ treatment before the end."

There stood a dunmer in the cell across from him – ragged as he was, and smelling likely worse, features pinched, expression twisted in a sick sort of glee. The lad did not know how to cut him off, how to shut him up – he shook at the bars in the pathetic hope they might have been left unlocked. Of course they stood firm – and the dunmer, seeing his distress, was only encouraged.

"Oh, that's right. You're going to die in here, Imperial! You're going to die! Imperial criminal scum like you give the Empire a bad name, you see. You're an embarrassment. Best if you just... disappeared."

The lad swallowed hard. "Shut up." His voice was hoarse in his throat, which he clasped a hand over. "You got no idea who I am... I got people outside. They'll bargain fer my release. Jus' you watch..." His tone was distant, brain swarming with thoughts of his escape – he kept glancing between the window and the barred gate.

The boy understood full well that there was no one who would aid him. He understood that his treatment would be terrible. And he understood that he would die if he did not escape. He further understood, however, that the dunmer was wrong. He would not die here. No – a few days might pass, maybe a couple of weeks if he was lucky, before they realized that they had caught far more than a mere burglar, seized on his way out of a rich elf's home. Before his petty efforts at disguise became all too transparent – and before he'd be slated for execution, likely tortured before, or during. The boy could only lie, and seek escape. Sitting upon the floor of his cell, he searched desperately for something which he could use to pick a lock.

Nothing – nothing but straw. And the dunmer was laughing at him. Still, the lad continued in search of something thinner, stiffer, hands feeling the straw for maybe a twig, before the laughter became too much and he retreated to a stone alcove in the cell, an alcove he felt certain must be used for that 'special' treatment the dunmer spoke of. Why else have something of the kind in a prisoner's cell... still, it hid him from the red-eyed stare, and he could cower in its protection. The lad huddled there, in the hopes that he would be forgotten.

Faint noises... he could have sworn there were noises in the alcove itself. He sat there for close to an hour, hiding from his fellow prisoner, and it seemed almost to work. The taunts ceased, the man apparently bored or distracted... no, what were those noises... the faintest footsteps, but they were footsteps to be sure... His thoughts were interrupted by the return of the dunmer's voice.

"Hear that? The guards are coming. For _you_! Hehehehee..."

The lad did not doubt the truth of this. He cowered tighter upon himself, but it was only for a moment. The dunmer was not just playing – he heard distant voices and the metallic shuffling of armour. Yes, this was to be it. The moment of truth, so to speak.

And here he was hiding behind a stone barrier... would he face his death and those bastard guards as such a coward? His hands shook, but the boy emerged. He stood still, fists clenched at his sides in the middle of the cell, staring down the gate. A guard was indeed approaching, from the looks of him – something a bit off about his armour, but he'd never been to prison before. And more behind him, who he could only hear.

"The messenger said only that they were attacked."

"No, they're dead, I know it..."

"My job right now is to get you to safety."

Two guards, female and male, stopped at his cell. Behind them –

The boy startled. A noble. And not the one he expected. He stared wordless, and neither guard seemed to know what to make of their prisoner either. "What's this prisoner doing here?! This cell is supposed to be off limits!" The female snapped suddenly to the other, who hesitated – "Usual mixup with the watch, I..." "Nevermind. Get that gate open."

The lad understood nothing now. What was this. What could this be. He wasn't supposed to be here – would he be slain merely for being in the way – it didn't seem entirely fair! He stood, still, stock-frozen.

"Stand back, prisoner. We won't hesitate to kill you if you get in our way." The lad stepped back, back to the wall, eyes wide, swallowing. In their way – but what could they mean, it was a cell, what way was there to get in – "No sign of pursuit, sir." The male guard now directed him to stay put, and he nodded mutely. "Good. Let's go. We're not out of this yet." Spoke the female – the lad looked to the ground. Maybe if he just kept quiet, and away from the rest, they wouldn't harm him –

"You... I've seen you..."

The nobleman spoke, and the lad's breath caught as if he'd been struck in the stomach. He dared not look up.

"Let me see your face..." The lad swallowed hard, his shoulders tensing, and raised up his head as the old nobleman drew close, far too close. This was it then. He'd been recognized, by one he recognized not. He wanted to shut his eyes and wait for the blow to come, for the man to order him run through, to say his name. But he mustn't. He must die with some shred of dignity – and so he glared at the man.

A pale and freckled teenager stared with seemingly causeless fury at the wrinkled old man with his mane of silvered hair. His face youthful, though its innocent form was injured by hunger and loss. His hair a wild mass of brown curls, it came down to his jaw. Across his scrawny neck was a terrible mark, a diagonal slash of a scar, indented and pink and not very old. It gave him an unsettling look, as if he ought really to be dead. That look was mirrored, somewhat, in his eyes – dulled and deadened, brown and staring as if at a great distance. It was a look that belonged on old soldiers, not on a lad who might be thought of still as a mere child.

And how he glared at the man before him with the great fur collar to his fancy robes, with the brightly shining amulet forming a diamond upon his chest. The man behind those pale blue eyes knew that glare. He had seen it a hundred times.

"You. You are the one from my dreams..."

The lad blinked. The hatred drained from his gaze, and was slowly replaced with sheer confusion. Of all the things he'd been expecting to hear...

"Then the stars were right, and this is the day. Gods give me strength."

There was a long silence. The boy could not help but stare now, nor could the man – finally to see that face without the glare, it changed how he had thought of it. And as for the boy, he did not understand anything at all. Speaking finally, hoarse voice weak.

"... What's going on..."

A strange smile pulled at the old man's face. He adopted a fatherly tone. "Assassins attacked my sons, and I'm next. My Blades are leading me out of the city along a secret escape route. By chance, the entrance to that escape route leads through your cell."

That explained – some things – and yet – "Who _are_ you?" The boy pleaded, arms wrapping about himself. The nobleman could not help but look a touch offended.

"I am your Emperor, Uriel Septim."

The boy mutely mouthed, 'shit'. This – this was Uriel Septim? He'd expected a crown – expected high airs and disdain, and, quite frankly, he'd have expected to be killed by now by an Emperor's order!

"By the grace of the Gods, I serve Tamriel as her ruler. You are a citizen of Tamriel and you, too, shall serve her in your own way."

Not this. Not this... philosophizing, lonely old man. The lad's voice was lost. He spoke without it. "What..."

The Emperor shook his head. "You will find your own path. Take care... there will be blood and death before the end." The female guard – no, Blade, not guard – spoke with far greater urgency in her voice. "Please, Sire, we must keep moving!"

Just what she did was hard to tell. The smallest gesture – but the trace of magic that accompanied it was not lost upon the lad. Nor indeed was the magic that flowed from the amulet upon the Emperor's chest. He'd distaste for both, ordinarily – but his distaste was lost for the moment in amazement, as the stone ledge of the alcove, which he'd suspected to be of use only for some form of torment or another, began to sink into the dusty ground and a section of wall split away.

So there really had been sounds from behind that wall...

"Better not close this one. There's no way to open it from the other side..."

And the Blades and Emperor proceeded into the passage. One of the male Blades was stern, warning the lad of the fate that might befall him were he to follow – the other said simply, cooly, that this was his lucky day.

He stared, astonished, at the dunmer in the cell across – and for once, the dunmer was struck dumb. He stared down the dusty passage. Waited – and then, creeping, followed, keeping close to the ground, into air that was like a crypt.

* * *

Been a while. I'm very RP-deprived so... fanfic time I guess? As you can probably gather by this point, this is at least partially sticking very close to the game source material, at least to begin with. It will not remain this close. One major change to come is that one of the Counts has straight up been replaced by a Count of my own creation. Apologies to his fans, I know he's likely the most popular Count in Oblivion.

What are some things you'd like to see in this? Jokes on some of the Oblivion mechanics are possible.


	2. Chapter 2: Rats and Blood

Chapter Two

* * *

The light was dim, and the boy was not entirely certain where it came from. Some distant windows, it must be, so high up and vented so he could hardly spot them. He could hear them ahead, Emperor and Blades – but uncertain of his safety among them, hung back. Never before had fortune smiled on him so brightly... he stared upward at a cobweb the size of himself as he crept along.

The air was stale as any he had ever breathed, even that in his cell had felt fresher. These passages must have been sealed for years. Decades. Maybe centuries, for all he knew. And these passages, vast. Had they been something else, long before – the dungeons built atop them? They were beautiful but without any utility he could see... the whole thing gave him a wary, unpleasant feeling. His head throbbed, his stomach dropped...

There was the sound of clashing metal from up ahead. The lad found himself moving faster, to see what it was – caught the silhouette of the Emperor around a corner, in a hall which let into a larger chamber. The old man's back was pressed against a wall and his face grey, as the Blades ahead of him fought figures masked and armoured. The sickened feeling increased. The boy knew then that it was not the stale air – it was the magic on the masked figures that he felt. One was cut down, and as he crumpled with a hissing half-formed cry, his armour melted away into a red mist, leaving behind only crimson robes.

The lad remained far behind the emperor as he could, eyes wide. This was not what he had imagined when they spoke of assassins. No ragtag bunch of angry freedom fighters, these. No – organized, well-equipped, uniform. And their target – an old man that the boy knew no real ill of save his position over all, a silvery fatalistic creature with sad eyes who could only stand back as the hard-voiced female grunted as a dagger pierced her – fell to the stones and wheezed out her last.

The assassins were finished. Each returned to a strange robed form, and from each the dreadful feeling faded only then. The darker of the remaining blades, a redguard perhaps, approached the Emperor who stood there frozen. The lad edged back, and low to the ground, not wishing them to know how close he had followed – barely peeking round the corner to watch. He could not help but do so.

"Are you all right, Sire? We're clear for now."

The Emperor's voice was a little weaker, a little lower, hesitant. "Captain Renault..."

"She's dead. I'm sorry, Sire, but we have to keep moving. There's trouble ahead..." The redguard maintained a stiff upper lip, kept his duty in the face of deadly danger. It was the sort of thing... well, it was the sort of thing the lad had admired, had believed in, long ago. The other remaining Blade was less steady. Anger, as he stared at the body of his fallen Captain. "How could they be waiting for us here!" The redguard only maintained his path. "Don't know. But it's too late to go back now."

The three of them moved to the gate at the end of the chamber – the Emperor had gone quiet, and perhaps sensing this, the Redguard spoke with strength. "Don't worry, Sire. We will get you out of here. They won't be the first to underestimate the Blades."

The Emperor did not respond. Was it true grief for his fallen captain – dread, for he seemed to know today he would die? They moved forward – and through that gate, and the door beyond. Slowly, the boy crept to the chamber now filled with the dead, holding his breath for a few moments. Staring at the red-robed figures – at the fallen Blade. He kept his bare feet from their blood, unnerved, and pulled the gate –

Locked. They'd locked it behind them. Of course they had. They'd known he must follow, after all, and here he was cut off – he no more had anything to pry the lock with here than he had in his cell. The lad glimpsed backwards towards the body of the Captain. Maybe with her sword –

But he grimaced. No. There was something that seemed … wrong about that. He looked around for other doors, and heard a scratching and scuttling – a stone gave way, and a large rat, one of the largest he'd ever seen, burst through. The beast must have been the size of a small dog, with scaly tail and far more fat on its body than he might expect. It was going for the Captain's body, drawn by the scent of blood. The boy was repelled, backing against a wall – another rat followed, and this one seemed to sense his distaste and his fear, approaching him.

A bare foot kicked the beast away – "Ugh, gettoff –" The little monsters were hostile! Both now turned to get at him, clawing and scrabbling at his legs in the short, linen rags – he cried out, danced around them, and seizing one by the tail flung it wildly across the room. The other jumped at his face, and reacting with a shout he punched its snout, hand coming away bloodied. It was dazed briefly, but enough for him to slam its head against the stones, feeling sickened. The lad stood there for some seconds. Waiting for something or someone – one of the dead, or the rats – to stir. But all was still and stinking. He grabbed up the closer rat by the tail.

It wouldn't be the first time he ate rat, if he took it for meat. But the knowledge that the beast itself liked to feast on people dissuaded him. He set it down again, and the lad went to investigate the space the beasts had burst through. Prying at the stones with bloody hands, he could create a space wide enough to crawl through.

He emerged to a dirt floor, unfinished, like many of the dirt-cellars he was used to. It had its own unique topography, sloping steeply. He'd no light, only the light from the other chamber to shine through, and felt his way round blindly. So long as he kept his hand on the right wall, he would be able to get out again, wouldn't he...? He nearly trod on the first thing. A chest. Pried it open, and found what looked like an ax, though so rusty it was falling apart. And coins. These were dirt-caked... but coins? Who – who had put these here? He had to squint, but they looked like proper septims. These made their way into his pocket and continued on his way.

As his vision adjusted, this strange undercellar became clearer. A well. An actual well, in a cellar... and something that stank horribly... he hoped it was not, but as he approached, the lad realized that indeed it was a body. Small. Short, the face and limbs told him quickly it was a goblin, a dead goblin – and the lad could feel the magic radiating from him. He must have something on him...

The boy swallowed hard. To raid a dead body, really... but a goblin was different from some self-sacrificing captain, he supposed. And he wasn't raiding. Just... just seeing what was there... One hand slipped into the pocket of the creature's robes, and came away with a little brass set of lockpicks.

The boy stared upwards to the ceiling. "Mara, Stendarr, whoever it is aidin' me... I... don't know what I done, t'deserve yer kindness today... I swear if I get outta here alive, I'll... I'll make tribute at th'temples..."  
And once more, he made to crawl through the way he'd come. To pick the gate the Blades had closed behind them.

It wasn't easy. He knelt there for what felt like half of an hour amid the smell of blood and the dead and dust, ear pressed close to the gate, gently coddling the brass picks lest they splinter and break, testing the tumblers again and again. The gate was iron and the picks could easily fracture if he tried too hard, tried to force the lock or broke the tumblers – more than once he needed to hold his breath to hear what he was doing.

Until finally, there was a sweet, beautiful, merciful and definitely iron – **click.**

The Blades and Emperor were long gone from the spot by the time he edged his way through, as silent as a thief could be. Still he crept along, listening for their voices, seeing the slain assassins that marked their path, the footsteps in thick grey dust. This was the path Out, he was certain – so this was the path he followed.

He was not alone. More rats came. More rats were dispatched – with increasing desperation and brutality, and panicked breaths, until, in finishing one off, he heard voices ahead, angry. Arguing. It was the remaining Blades. Not as far ahead as he had expected – had something gone wrong? The lad pressed on quietly, scratches across his arms and forehead, damaging the already-ragged shirt. Hearing voices from up ahead.

"We should find a defensible spot and protect the Emperor until help arrives."

" _Help?_ What makes you think help will get here before more of those bastards do? We need to get the Emperor out of here!"

The sudden drop in the boy's stomach told him what was about to happen five seconds before it did – "More of them coming!" Shouted a Blade. Up ahead – _below,_ in the lower section of a chamber, the lad could see them, once more fighting tooth and nail, swords dripping and clanging, as the Emperor once more pressed himself into the safest position. He could not help creeping closer. The men did not see him anyhow, couldn't hear him over their combat, and he was above them... He remained, until their combat was over. No more Blades were lost this time... the assassins had lost their element of surprise somewhat. They made to press on, but as the Emperor moved from the corner he sheltered in, his pale blue eyes sought out the boy as if drawn by a string.

The lad turned tense as rock, as the Redguard turned to stare up at where he was perched, dirty and bloody – "Damn it! It's that prisoner again! Kill him, he might be working with the assassins."

Before the syllable of protest could leave the lad's voice, he had leapt up to flee –

The Emperor held up his hand. Like one of those old statues of the Gods.

"No. He is not one of them."

What was this man!

"He can help us. He must help us."

The lad's back was pressed against the stones, his jaw tense and jutting, staring down at the figures below him in disbelief – his eyes remained on the Redguard's sword, but the voice of the Emperor addressed him, tired and almost jesting, in a gentle way.

"Come closer. I'd prefer not to have to shout."

The lad stared – and with disbelief in his eyes, clambered down. Who was he – to refuse the request of the Emperor, when the man seemed on his way to the grave? And when the man just looked at him like a wayward grandson... A wrinkled, pale hand went to rest upon his shoulder. The voice of Septim was soft.

"They cannot understand why I trust you. They've not seen what I've seen."

The boy glanced away. "... I ain't seen either, sire..."

There might have been a hair of a chuckle, but it died in the emperor's throat under words. "How can I explain? Listen. You know the Nine? How They guide our fates with an invisible hand?"

Any other day, the lad would have believed he was not on good terms with the Gods. But today, he nodded mutely.

"I've served the Nine all my days, and I chart my course by the cycles of the heavens. The skies are marked with numberless sparks, each a fire, and every one a sign. I know these stars well, and I wonder... which sign marked your birth?"

A wheezing sound escaped the boy – he rubbed at his scarred throat. "I..." He had to remember. If only his mother was here, she'd recall in an instant... perhaps it was the absurdity of the Emperor, of Uriel Septim asking him his star-sign!

"I... I think I was unner th'Shadow, yer highness..."

The man nodded knowingly. "The signs I read show the end of my path. My death, a necessary end, will come when it will come."

The lad glanced about them. Here the Emperor was vague. But from what he had said earlier... the old man seemed convinced that his death would come soon indeed.

"Sire... I don' unnerstand. What've I got t'do with yer stars...?"

"Your stars are not mine. But today, the Shadow shall hide you from destiny's cunning hounds..."

"D'you mean to say you kin see my fate, yer highness?"

"My dreams grant me no opinions of success. Their compass ventures not beyond the doors of death."

The lad opened his mouth to speak – but the Emperor continued.

"But in your face, I behold the sun's companion. The dawn of Akatosh's bright glory may banish the coming darkness. With such hope, and with the promise of your aid, my heart must be satisfied."

"... your highness... how are you so calm. You say yer dreams have told you you're goin' to die. No matter what yer guards do, or what I do..."

"No trophies of my triumphs precede me. But I have lived well, and my ghost shall rest easy. Men are but flesh and blood. They know their doom, but not the hour. In this, I am blessed to see the hour of my death... to face my apportioned fate, then fall."

The lad wasn't sure how he could respond to that. How could anyone respond to that. He gestured, at a lack of words for a moment, around them and their strange surroundings.

"Sire – where are we going, then..."

"I go to my grave. A tongue shriller than all the music calls me. You shall follow me yet for a while, then we must part."

With a sad, wistful smile, the Emperor turned away. He left the lad standing as if in shock. This emperor. Did he take joy in riddles, knowing he would soon leave them without clear answer – or maybe he truly didn't know. His visions might not extend much further.

The lad wished to stay to the back – but the Blades, as they resumed their slow procession through these secret paths, would have none of it. They wished him to carry a torch – he offered instead to scout ahead, and that, it seemed, was enough.

He did not have to scout far. There were more. He could feel them, and his voice was dry in his throat. "Sirs. They're there." Closing his eyes before pointing. He did not see their aura. He felt it, the places from which a low, throbbing, sickly feeling originated. These were the places he pointed to. The Blades looked skeptical. "Below... th'moment we come down th'stairs..."

The quieter Blade opened his mouth, with a scoffing expression. And the Emperor, without a word, as if to emphasize his belief in this thief – this nobody, this criminal – pulled forth his own sword. All but the prisoner were armed as they proceeded.

* * *

Record time for an update, I think. Especially for me... Please review! I know it's hella long.


	3. Chapter 3: Directional Aching

The lad moved slow. The closer he got, as he slowly traversed the chambers the more his head ached, the more his stomach seemed to sink and weigh down – and the more his heart pounded, knowing he was getting nearer to deadly danger.

The Blades were frustrated, champing at the bit almost with his slowness, but the boy was unarmed and knew full well that he was not a priority to protect – first it would be the Emperor, then themselves, then him that they stepped in to defend. His hope was to use that awful feeling building in him as a tool, as he once had – he turned and put a finger to his lips to emphasize the need for quiet. If they could just get past them – well, from what he could feel, it was unlikely they could avoid detection, unprepared as they were. But perhaps they could have the element of surprise. More than once he closed his eyes so that what he saw would not cloud what he felt.

The lad's hands formed strange symbols, moved rapidly in gestures before pointing them towards the right. One Blade's hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, his teeth gritting, wondering if the prisoner was trying something – magic, some summoning, a traitor after all – but then the shackle-wristed Imperial just sighed silently, and pointed to the right more vehemently, before once more leading the way, lips pressed tight together.

The Blades frowned to eachother, in confusion – had the strange gestures been some form of brief fit? The emperor looked calmly enlightened, knowing, but didn't he always? They kept to the right, so stealthily as they could, as they descended. It was just as the criminal had said. There were more armoured assassins waiting, but they were concentrated towards the left side of the chamber. The group would inevitably be spotted as they moved, but the boy had won them knowledge of position and surprise – though how, none was sure.

Even the Emperor had no idea how the boy knew. He no longer questioned such things.

The Blades signaled with glances and nods to eachother before springing the attack on the assassins this time – rather than the other way round. They were made short and bloody work of, such that by the time the elderly Septim closed in with his own sword, their armour had melted away into the ether as the lights in their eyes faded with its magic.

"Not much farther," the old man breathed. The Blades looked relieved. But the lad swallowed. The old man's visions of this day did not extend much farther... was that what he meant?

Again the boy took up the lead, knowing which way the threat lay. Two red-cloaked figures stood in an empty chamber waiting prey which never came – prey which crept by them on the stones above, wincing at every tiny sound of the Blades' armour – til they came to an empty hall.

"We are past them, Your Majesty!" Smiled one Blade in a half-whisper, astonished. But the other was tense. It was as if the same nasty feeling which lingered in the prisoner's belly had come to him, now, too. "Hold up," he commanded. "I don't like this." The chamber was quiet – but distantly, the boy could feel it too, he could not relax, his head still hurt – "Let me take a look..." The Blade who spoke moved ahead, holding his hand for the others to hold back. But he moved forth and sighed. "Looks clear. We're almost through to the sewers."

The sewers? Perhaps he might have suspected – underground as they must be, high as the tiny slivers of light from above sat– but the image of two heavily armoured bodyguards, a fur-robed Emperor, and a filthy street rat emerging from some sewer grate – it made him want to laugh, almost, but his head and his stomach would not let the prisoner laugh. Indeed, as he followed, walking by this strange Emperor's side, he did not feel like laughing at all. His mouth going dry – he croaked. "No... no, this ain't righ'... there's more..."

The Emperor turned slowly. He looked to him with that blue, knowing gaze, but once more the Blades were willing to dismiss him – they moved to unlock the gate, and then the one who had scouted cursed. "Damn it! The gate is barred from the other side – a trap!"

The boy stepped back, swallowing hard. The Gods had blessed him so greatly and now – this – why? What was the sense in it? The Blades could do nothing but seek answers, solutions, notes of desperation in their voices. "What about that side passage back there?" One suggested – it was the only way but back. But at least they were doing something, not just standing and thinking of death as thief and emperor were. "Worth a try. Let's go!" They moved to the side passage, and the boy followed with fists balled tight.

Better to die like this than to retreat to his cell. Better to go out defending _something._ Even if that something was some old, sad man he'd thought of with indifference til this day. That was what he must believe... and far more strangely, it was what he _did_ believe.

A trap? A trap it must be. "They're... they're so close... they're so close, but... but where...?" All he saw – walls. Were they in the room that the gate would have led to – they must be, they must be, to be behind those walls – but why shut themselves there? They could do nothing from there – he looked about the room they had come into but –

"It's a dead end, sir – what's your -"

The prisoner cried out as the ache's source moved even though he couldn't hear the muffled steps – "They're comin' out that gate!" That was it – the assassins had placed themselves hidden behind the corner and behind the gate so they could trap the Emperor in this escapeless side room like a – like a – like fish in a barrel, it was all he could think, these robed assassins had manipulated their path –

This time, the guards listened, and turned, and one rushed to cut off the assassins before the snare could close. The other paused only a moment – "Wait here with the Emperor," He ordered with astonishing level tone. "Guard him with your life." And then he too rushed to face the threat.

The criminal could have shouted – his _life_ , maybe, but he'd _no damn weapons_! – his knives had been taken from him when he was arrested! But something else distracted his attention, as he and the Emperor were left alone to cower in this – this near-mausoleum of a stone room.


	4. Chapter 4: Against A Wall

The feeling, no, that sickness and dread and throbbing pain, it was there, but where, where – he closed his eyes for a moment, against the sound of the Blades clashing against the assassins and the sight of the Emperor's piercing, deep gaze – and gasped, pointing at a closed, stone portal in the wall which he'd taken for a bricked-up window or door from long ago. "Sire – behind -"

The Emperor moved with alarming speed and a swish of robes, and clasped a pale, veined and wrinkled hand over the criminal's mouth, that his words would not be talked over or go unheard or forgotten, and pushed the criminal out of the path of the bricked-up arch, against a cold wall. His pale eyes stared into the dark and alarmed eyes of the ragged criminal, whose warning was silenced.

"I can go no further. You alone must stand against the Prince of Destruction and his mortal servants. He must not have the Amulet of Kings!"

With this, the silver-haired man, still pressing the boy against the wall with desperate urgency, undid the clasp of the amulet about his neck, and pressed it, near-forced it, into the thief's hand.

"Take the Amulet! Give it to Jauffre! He alone knows where to find my last son!"

A muffled response of confusion was kept compressed under the ring-clad hand – the wrinkled man leant in and spoke low and stern.

"Find him, and close shut the jaws of Oblivion."

With this, the prisoner was released – in time to see the stones in the arch sliding upwards, sliding open. The Emperor stepped backwards, calm flooding onto his features and his eyes closing as he whispered a prayer to Arkay – and as an armoured figure emerged from the space behind him, wielding a dagger, masked in enchanted metal.

The lad gasped – against all logic, he rushed forward as if he'd any chance of slowing the assassin – the armoured figure extended a hand and magic struck him, enveloped him, the pain spread – no longer only his head and his gut, but a dull throbbing deep pain lying under his skin and burrowing like something parasitic.

He could not move. He fell to the ground like a dead weight, paralyzed, landing hard on the solid floor upon his back, his right arm with the amulet in its hand folded awkwardly and painfully beneath him, head striking against the stones painfully but not so hard as to stun or daze him.

No, the lad was quite conscious of everything – as he stared up to the Emperor turning and facing his attacker with stony expression – crying out a warbling cry as the masked assassin reached as if to embrace him and stabbed the cruel-looking, warped weapon into the old man's back – withdrew, stabbed, withdrew, stabbed, withdrew – again and again, and the lad saw every wobble of Uriel Septim's form above him, every stagger, every waft and billow of his robes, until like a tree being felled he teetered side to side and in one movement muffled by furs and velvet, collapsed beside his paralyzed form, eyes like sea-ice fixed upon him with that same stare, that same fatalism, that same unnerving... that...

That hope. That damned hope, all because he'd seen him in his dreams, assumed the wretch's importance purely because he knew his own importance would cease – trusted in a filthy prisoner not yet old enough to grow a beard with shackles still fast upon his wrists, no weapons, no friends remaining to him, no opinions of his own success.

The assassin, satisfied, moved to the boy, standing over his prone and unmoving form. He spoke softly. "Stranger. You have chosen a bad day to take up the cause of the Septims." He placed the warm metal of his sabaton, pulsing with magic so thick the lad could feel it like a coating of oil, upon the boy's throat, slowly stepping and putting his weight upon it – there was no need for such efficiency as had been had with the emperor here, and he could watch the panic grow in the paralyzed teenager's eyes, watch him scrape and struggle for breath, watch him try to scream or plead –

The masked man's head was cloven from his shoulders with a sweep of a long, lightly curved sword in the hands of one of the Blades. The mask evaporated from the head into dust, the body slumping – the magic released at once, and the boy sat up, gasping, as the bodyguard knelt with horror by his charge's side, feeling desperately for a pulse he already knew was absent. "No," He choked. "Talos save us..."

He looked to the prisoner, in shock, in the sudden silence where there was no fighting left to be done. His voice a whisper, his eyes staring at the boy's shoulder, rather than his face, so flooded with realization. "... We've failed. I've failed... The Blades are sworn to protect the Emperor, and now he and all of his heirs are dead." The dark-skinned man's eyes closed tightly for a few moments, and he placed a hand upon the still chest of Uriel Septim.

The boy did not know what to say – he only sat up to kneel, and watch – the Redguard's hand slowly moved, eyes widening as he slowly realized, when his hand did not touch a large gem – "The amulet! Where is the amulet of Kings!? It wasn't on the Emperor's body!"

This King may have willed it – may have chosen the boy as some strange messenger – but he did a good job of making the prisoner look like some terrible vulture of a graverobber – to steal from the man only seconds after he'd died – he blurted out: "The emperor gave it to me!" – seeing the Redguard's hand on his sword. Truth it might have been, but a truth which sounded like the most pathetic sort of story – yet the man didn't move, or accuse him, or move to get at him – he just looked at the Emperor and... laughed, a sad, broken sort of laugh.

"Yes... I expect he probably did... strange. He saw something in you. Trusted you." The lad sat back, staring. The guard sighed. His hand moved to stroke back the dead man's silver mane of hair. "They say it's the Dragon Blood that flows through the veins of every Septim. They see more than lesser men...Or was it more of lesser men?"

He rose – so the boy rose too, unsure of what to do but listen to the Blade speak. "The Amulet of Kings is a sacred symbol of the Empire. Most people think of the Red Dragon Crown, but that's just jewelery." And admittedly, the lad had not expected a man without that crown to be the Emperor! "It has power – only a true heir of the Blood can wear it, they say. He must have given it to you for a reason..."

The boy held the chain of the thing, staring at it with a deep frown. All this talk – an heir of the Blood – but no. He would know, if the necklace held what he feared. "He must have given it to you for a reason. Did he say why?" The prisoner sighed. "He said – he said I had t'take it t'someone named Jauffre... I dunno who -" "Jauffre? He said that? Why?" There was urgency in the man's voice. The prisoner shifted, trying to adjust the chafing cuffs at his wrists. "Coz... well, he also said... there's another heir. I figure that's this Jauffre?"

The Redguard was gobsmacked, astonished, and laughing in disbelief – "What! No, no, the man's practically as old as the Emperor himself – another heir?! Nothing I ever heard about..." His tone thoughtful. "But then, if someone did, Jauffre would be the one to know. He's the Grandmaster of my order... though you may not think so, when you meet him." When. There was no if. The Emperor had said the lad must take the Amulet to Jauffre – so take it to Jauffre he must, it was simple as that, apparently. "He lives quietly as a monk at Weynon Priory, near the city of Chorrol."

The lad held up his hands, brows furrowing – "Hold on, hold on, Chorrol – righ', great, but I don' even know how I get outta here... Through that gate what they had locked?" "Yes. That way is clear now, at least on this level. It's a secret way out of the Imperial City... or at least, it was supposed to be secret... you'll need this key for the sewers." He passed forward a large brass key, of a heavy make. "There are rats and goblins down there, be warned... but from what I've seen, you've got a sixth sense about danger. An experienced Healer, am I right?"

The lad hesitated – "Well... no, not really... I mean, I know a bit about alchemy, but I ain't even got magic... at all... not a touch ovvit."

The man's eyebrows shot up. "Really? Huh. Well... I don't know what you are, prisoner. You held your own against something, that's clear." He gestured with a large hand to the blood and scrapes all over the lad. "And with your bare fists... I am sorry we did not provide you with a weapon. I'm afraid we thought you might still be a threat to the Emperor, despite what he said... only now do I realize how closely to follow his words. He said for _you_ to bring the Amulet to Jauffre, so I think he meant for _you_ to do it... Glenroy and I must guard the Emperor's body. Clean out those scum from these halls. But you found a way to follow us all this way... I'm sure you'll be able to sneak past any remaining threats on your way through the sewers."

Honestly, the lad didn't know whether to be flattered or insulted. A bloodied hand rested once more upon his throat, a deep frown upon his face, as for the third time, he was handed something - needing to pocket the amulet and key.

A dagger. A simple enough dagger, that the Redguard handed him in as much confusion as anything - knowing, in a sad and empty way, that he must trust and possibly even respect this criminal, but not really knowing why - certainly no more than the criminal himself did.

He took it in his hand, and at a gesture from the Redguard, began to move for the passage which had been gated off. He stepped carefully around the bloody and sprawled form of the Emperor, biting his lip as he kept his bare feet from the man's blood which was pooling about him - could not help but look again into the blue eyes which would soon begin to cloud, as if hoping there might be hidden life still in them - but no - only that damned hopeful stare. He came through the doorway and paused, as the Blade spoke.

"Prisoner. My name is Baurus. What is yours."

The scrawny, bloody lad went still, brows furrowing. His head still ached, and not from the feeling of the magic from the red-robed assassins - that feeling, surprisingly, had faded, enough that he doubted any would be waiting for him in the sewers. The only magic he could sense was that from the Emperor's amulet, a magic which felt, so close to his skin, almost like some sort of oil that would not wipe away - not pleasant, but not painful. No, his head hurt still from the paralyzed fall, and from the beating he'd received when he'd been caught, slipping out of someone's house in the Elven Gardens district... and though he remembered the name he had given, he could not be certain what name he had been recorded under in the prisons.

He spoke quietly, as if trying to convince, or to remind, himself.

"... Bialis. Bialis Conroy."

It was a slightly odd name for a human, admittedly - the given name carried something elvish with it, the surname perfectly common. But it was not so unthinkable as to give the Blade question.

"Good luck, Bialis Conroy... and make haste."


	5. Chapter 5: Into Fresh Air

Bialis continued - past the dead, shoulders hunched, grip on the plain iron dagger tight, nose wrinkled against the smell of blood. He knelt to unlock the trapdoor - and carefully descended a ladder into the stinking darkness below. The smell was, unfortunately, quite undeniable - he already smelled bad, he was sure, and shuddered to think how it would be when he came out. On the plus side - the uncontrollable feeling of sickness and unease was much lesser than it had been, only the natural discomforts of a bruised and battered street rat sent with an Emperor's amulet into a sewer on a journey to find a monk who was secretly a Blade.

Ah. And the rats. He could hear them up ahead... his movements were quiet. Of one thing he felt certain: the beasts could likely not smell him. Bialis crept slowly down the stairs, the things he had seen, the Emperor's unearthly knowledge, his urgency and the wrinkled hand over his mouth, still rebounding off the insides of his skull.

He saw one of the beasts, nibbling something he cared not to know what it was, as he passed into the sewer chamber itself from the entry hall - these rats were smaller, hungrier-looking, but their teeth were vicious, their eyes bright and seeking.

He kept his body low to the ground, his movements painfully slow, and he seemed at first to evade their notice. But these were true sewer rats - not street rats such as himself - adjusted to their lives in the stinking, near-lightless place. And while his sight was but dim, theirs was keen, and he was so much larger than them that he could not cross before them unnoticed - when one rat noticed him, it began to investigate, alerting another and another, until Bialis realized himself quite an unwitting pied piper.

Over a half-dozen rats were trying to get near him - he got to his feet once more, in hopes his size might scare the lot off, and while a few darted back, they all seemed eager to try their luck, nasty, awful and malevolent - the kind of rats that old wives said would eat a child's face off while they slept, not the timid and even cute country rats scuttering about the grain arcs and fields in fear of being noticed he'd grown up with.

So - turn and kill rats, or flee, not knowing what else might lurk - he turned, with that dagger, and lunged at the quick creatures. They did not lunge back. He did not even strike one, they darted away as he moved for them, and they did not follow now - or if they did, not near so close, biding their time.

He heard sounds up a passage, moving through to another section of putrid tunnel - a little more diluted, the smell - he cringed less, but perhaps he was becoming accustomed to it. He peeked round, and there spotted a goblin. Its back to him. Good... he kept quiet, kept low, kept a firm hold of his knife, and kept going.

He'd no idea, it occurred to him, where the real exit was - he'd been given no directions - so all he could do was follow the paths that seemed open and hope to find a glimmer of light, or another ladder...

The goblin never knew that the ragged boy was there, it seemed, for he passed without its turning - and there were stairs. Stairs up. He'd been moving downwards for so long it was a little bit of a surprise, honestly... so up the stairs he crept, on all fours to keep his profile low in case something lurked at the top.

Light. Not here, but somewhere, yes, he could see from here - Bialis moved towards it, a little faster now, his bare feet making wet noise on the damp stones in his excitement, his eyes fixed less on that around him, fixed on that before. Today he'd woken to the sight of bars, in a cell - today he had been freed, too, to say nothing of all the madness in between - he saw a tunnel out, a grate ahead onto light so bright he could barely handle it, could not see what lay on the other side for it blinded him, and he ran for it in exultant relief -

A skinny arm caught him about the throat, a fanged mouth bit searingly into his back, between the shoulder and neck, and weight appeared upon his back like a sack of rocks - a goblin, another damn goblin, he screamed out, and swung round wildly.

The goblin clinging to his back was slammed hard into the wall but still held on with arms, legs, and teeth, screaming its animal screams, drawing blood and screaming into it - the criminal shouted in pain - "GET OFFA ME -" But it would hear none of it, and he pried away the arm from about his neck, biting it quite as hard in return - a horrible, briny taste filled his mouth - the goblin's grip loosened enough for the boy to find one of its legs and stab down, and it fell -

From there, it was wild, panicked slashes of the knife, before the boy, gasping, backed with heaving chest against the grate. Bleeding - in pain and very much startled - but still just as much alive, he just stood trying to catch his breath - before unlocking and pushing open the grate, stumbling out.

It did not open into the Imperial City, as he had suspected it might - but far outside its walls, out past the walls of the prison. Bialis was out - he had escaped - the only prisoner that had escaped the Imperial Prison within his lifetime - he stepped out into cleaner waters, paying little heed to their temperature, if it would help rid him of that smell - he wanted to laugh, or weep, or know what it was he wanted to do, seeing all those green hills spread out all around him - the high white walls, a distant ruin, closeby mushrooms, and fresh air - fresh, breathable air that smelled of green things and clean and just right, warm with sunshine, cool with movement - breezing -

Breezing across the exposed scar on his throat.

He turned back into the reeking tunnel, bent over the bloody corpse of the goblin which had been stalking him through the sewers with greater skill than his own quietness, and once more - checked what it had. A shield of leather, something he'd no idea how to use properly - but he took it, knowing he was desperately poor and might be able to fob it off for a few coins. This creature, too, had a few lockpicks, and he took them - but this was not what he sought. He needed cloth... was there no clean cloth upon it? Herbs, even - but of course not. It had been in the sewers far longer than him, he was sure...

Sighing, he retreated once more to light and fresh air, and water - rinsing blood from his rags and wounds so well as he could, before using the knife to cut a starting point to tear one sleeve of the linen shirt - ripping it in so long a strip as he could fashion, and tying it about his neck, bitten shoulder throbbing and smarting terribly.

He'd have to get something for it, a goblin bite might well go rotten if he did not... for the moment, he could do nothing for it but wash it in the river. It would be near impossible for him to wrap himself, given where the wound was... sadly, not the first time he'd had such a problem.

Emerging from the water into the sun, he hesitantly touched the amulet in his pocket, the source of that strange feeling like oil - even if he were to place it in its own bag or box, it would feel like that. Perhaps if he were to wear it about his neck but backwards, it might soothe his back, put that odd feeling to use - he tried to clasp it about his neck, and with a burst of its magic, it slid right off, repelled as if he'd tried to throw it away.

For a moment he was confused, even alarmed - but then recalled what that Blade, that Baurus had said. Only a true Heir could wear it - well, it seemed the legends were true, and that this was at least a part of its magic! How it accomplished this feat, this knowledge of his worthless blood of no high order, yet did not delve into magics he would find far more unpleasant to be around - Well, he did not know, and he did not question for long. Better to count his blessings. He slipped it into his pocket.

But what to do - for while standing in the sun and the fresh air felt enough, for the moment, he must decide where to go, what to do.

Baurus, he was certain, would have him go straight for Chorrol - but had he any desire just now to travel West? Again, West? Wounded as he was, in pain, without resource - he might not even make the journey, and where would the Empire stand then, the poor Empire without an Emperor -

It made him want to laugh, but it made him want to cry, at once. The thought of it - he, himself, Bialis - giving a damn whether the high and mighty rulers fell to ruin? He felt certain if he'd only heard about the Emperor's death, he would figure - _Good riddance_ \- a man in a lofty tower brought down, nothing to weep over, just a warning to the rest of the highbloods -

But he hadn't only heard. He'd seen it, he'd seen the man topple - and he hadn't looked like a King, he'd looked like someone's grandfather. He hadn't looked down on him in disdain or disinterest - but like something strange, an ancient relic or a vision from the future, the way one might stare if they thought they saw a unicorn, or a dragon, off in the distance.

The Emperor had spoken to him strangely, but not unkindly - and then that intensity in his final moments, that hope, that _trust -_ that trust that somehow, Bialis could make things right. That... why? Why? He didn't know. He truly didn't know.

To say nothing of some of the other things the poor old man had said.

Close shut the Jaws of Oblivion? What on earth was that to mean...

He began to walk uphill, dripping wet and letting the sun dry him, putting the amulet back in his pocket. No - he could not abandon this mission. But he would need to delay it. Gather supplies. And then... There was something in the Imperial City without which Bialis knew he could not bear to continue. And he must retrieve it.


End file.
